The Sin Keeper

by Gary Winston Brown

Hallier joined the agents.

  “Everything all right?” ADC Ridgeway asked the Colonel.

  Hallier rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about the Chief. He’ll be fine. He’s just trying to see how high up the tree he can piss.” He changed the subject. “The Assistant Director informs me you have a very unique talent, Agent Quest.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hallier pointed to the Porsche. “See that car? It belongs to one of the men we’re looking for, Dr. Jason Merrick. I think he may be responsible for killing Jenkins’ victim. I need to find Merrick and another man who may be with him, Commander Ben Egan. Think you can help me with that?”

  “Of course, Colonel.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get to it.”

  CHAPTER 36

  HOW HAD the FBI connected him to Rosenfeld?

  Taras Verenich’ efforts to subdue his rising panic was proving to be an exercise in futility. His palms were soaked with sweat. His heart pounded with such ferocity he feared he might go into cardiac arrest at any second.

  He had to get out of Los Angeles, fast. He was suddenly on the radar of the FBI. Which meant something had gone terribly wrong. The agents had asked if he knew Itzhak Rosenfeld. If they were asking questions about his connection to the philanthropist what else did they know? Had The Company been compromised? Were preparations already underway to make changes in the American operation? Marina was on her way from Russia at this very moment. The purpose of her trip was two-fold: to meet with him, and to deal with the mysterious stranger who had threatened to harm both her and her son. But was her visit just a ruse? Perhaps she had been instructed to come to America for the express purpose of killing him and to tie up any loose ends which The Company had deemed to be necessary. Had he become a loose end?

  Taras pressed a button under his desk. A framed Norman Rockwell painting located above his credenza slid up the wall on a hidden track, exposing a wall safe. Verenich punched in the electronic combination. The door clicked open.

  Taras placed his briefcase on his desk, opened the latches, then turned his attention to the safe.

  He removed several passports, excellent quality fakes he had commissioned shortly after he joined The Company. He tossed them into the case along with a notebook labeled CONTINGENCY. The details of every meeting and telephone call he had ever had with Marina was recorded in the book. It was his book of secrets about The Company; an insurance policy he could sell to the highest bidder if and when taking such action should become necessary. His every instinct was telling him now was the time to cash out. He grabbed several bundles of cash and a burner phone from the safe, threw the items in the briefcase, locked it, placed the case under his desk, and pressed the button beneath his desk again. The painting returned to its home position on the wall.

  Taras picked up the phone and buzzed Avel.

  “Yes, Mr. Verenich?”

  “The package?” he said. “Do you have it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Bring it to my office.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Avel stepped into Taras’ office carrying a small box under his arm. He closed the office door and handed the parcel to the lawyer.

  “How much?” Taras asked.

  “A grand, plus another two-hundred for the extras.”

  Taras opened the box and inspected the order: a fully loaded Colt semi-automatic 9mm handgun, four pre-loaded clips and six boxes of ammunition.

  “Satisfactory?” Avel asked.

  Taras nodded. He returned the items to the box. “One more thing.”

  “Of course.”

  “The Ferrari is parked in the underground. You know my detailer?”

  “Coventry’s?”

  “Yes. I’ll be out for a while. Run it over there. Tell them I want the works. Interior and exterior cleaning, vacuum, wet gloss polish. I’ll pick it up later.”

  “Certainly.”

  “And use the west exit when you leave the building, not the east.”

  Avel laughed. “What difference does it matter which exit I --?”

  Taras snapped at him. “The west exit, Avel.”

  Avel nodded. “Of course, sir. The west parking lot exit. My apologies.”

  Taras handed him the ignition fob to his Ferrari 488. “You better get moving. I’m already running late.”

  “Right away, sir,” Avel said. He left the room.

  Taras removed the gun from the box, slipped on his blazer, shoved the weapon into his waistband and placed a clip in each coat pocket. He walked across his office and stood out of sight beside the window, peering through the blinds at the street below, waiting.

  A minutes later, Avel exited the underground parking lot from the west side of the building, as instructed. Taras listened to the whine of the Ferrari as Avel slowed at the car park exit, then heard it scream to life as he sped up the road, racing through the amber traffic light. Across the street, the surveillance team witnessed the Ferrari leave the building and speed up the road. The Mercedes squealed out of its parking space, raced down the ramp to the first level, tore out of the parking structure, then braked hard at the red light. When the traffic light turned green the sedan raced up the road in pursuit of the sports car.

  Taras waited until the car was out of sight. He walked to his desk, picked up the phone and placed a call.

  “Elite Air.”

  “I need to book a jet.”

  “Your account number, please?”

  “TA-24-1667.”

  A pause, then, “Thank you, Mr. Antipov. When and where, sir?”

  Taras almost corrected the Elite Air service rep when he addressed him by his false surname, Antipov.

  “Tonight. Los Angeles to Costa Rica. Direct.”

  “Number in your party?”

  “Just me.”

  “Very good, sir. You’re confirmed for 9:00 P.M. departure. Would you like your ticket emailed to you?”

  “I’ll pick it up at the counter.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Antipov,” the rep said. “We’ll see you soon. Thank you for choosing Elite--”

  Verenich hung up the phone, reached under his desk, grabbed the briefcase.

  He would leave the country tonight, immediately following his meeting with Ashley Granger, and get out before everything hit the fan. If Marina Puzanova was being sent from Russia to kill him he’d make sure she never got the chance. If the purpose of her visit was legitimate, to find and eliminate the threat to her son, then she would have to fend for herself. One way or the other, Taras was determined to stay one step ahead of The Company and the FBI. And stay alive.

  “I’m out for the evening, Elena,” Taras said as he walked past his receptionist and pressed the elevator call button.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The doors separated. Taras stepped inside.

  Elena called out. “When shall I say you’ll be back?”

  The doors rumbled closed. The elevator descended to the main floor.

  From behind the lobby window Taras surveyed the street

  No sign of the shadow team or the Mercedes.

  He stepped out of the building onto the sidewalk. A Yellow Cab was parked across the street. Verenich flagged the driver. The roof light turned on. The driver made a quick U-turn and pulled up to the curb. Verenich jumped in.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked.

  “Caridad’s,” Taras answered. “You know the place?”

  “Sure do.”

  The driver spun around. Taras watched the gleaming building disappear behind him. He knew he would probably never set eyes on it again.

  As he lifted the briefcase from the seat beside him it slipped out of his hands and fell hard on the floor of the cab. The cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror.

  “Sorry,” Taras said. “Butterfingers.”

  The cabbie returned his attention the road.

  Taras picked up the briefcase.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.

  C
HAPTER 37

  JORDAN’S PHONE rang as she was inspecting the Porsche. Agent Hawkins was calling back.

  “Go ahead, Hawk,” Jordan said. “You’re on speaker with Chris.”

  “Cyber got back to me with more info on the flash drive,” Hawkins said. “The account numbers do, in fact, belong to BitCoin accounts.”

  “The Internet-based currency you talked about,” Chris said.

  “Precisely,” Hawkins said. “We’ve expedited a warrant. These guys don’t exactly have a stellar reputation when it comes to cooperating with the authorities.”

  “So we have names?”

  “Yes,” Hawkins replied. “Remember how each of the account numbers was preceded by two letters? Those were identifiers. The first initial of the last name, followed by the first initial of the first name. One of the files belongs to Dr. Rosenfeld – ‘RI,’ a.k.a Rosenfeld, Itzhak.”

  “And the others?” Jordan asked.

  “DM belongs to Dowd, Michael; ‘HJ’ to Harper, Julie…”

  She turned to Chris, “The victims in the El Segundo murders: Michael Dowd and Julie Harper. The strip club owner and his manager.

  “Somehow they’re all connected,” Chris said.

  “There are three more names,” Hawkins said. “Taras Verenich, who we already know has a relationship of some kind with Rosenfeld. The other accounts belong to Ashley Granger and Marina Puzanova for a total of six.”

  “But no account for Zahava Rosenfeld,” Chris said.

  “No,” Hawkins said. “Which means one of two things. Either she was collateral damage or she’s neck-deep in this with her husband.”

  “We need to find Verenich,” Jordan said. “He’s the only one on the list that we know for sure is still alive.”

  “So far, anyway,” Chris said.

  “I’m willing to bet he knows who killed the Rosenfeld’s,” Jordan said. “Probably Dowd and Harper, too. What about the file name, Hawk. Any idea what ‘AWP’ means?”

  “Not yet.”

  “First Dowd and Harper, then Rosenfeld,” Chris said. “If Verenich has been targeted we need to find him and get him into protective custody right away.”

  “The other names, Granger and Puzanova,” Jordan asked Agent Hawkins. “What do we know about them?”

  “No record for either name came up in the NCIC database search,” Hawk replied. “There are half a million Ashley Granger’s living in the United States. Far fewer Puzanova’s. Cyber is also checking social media for any links to our victims.”

  “Besides Verenich, Granger and Puzanova, all the account holders listed on the drive are dead,” Jordan said. “And the jury’s still out as to whether or not Granger and Puzanova are still alive.”

  “Let’s hope neither of them catches a bullet before we find them,” Chris said.

  Jordan though about the crime scene behind her and the liquefied remains of Jenkin’s victim.

  “Or worse,” she said.

  CHAPTER 38

  TWO FIRE trucks and an ambulance followed closely behind additional Laguna Beach police units as they arrived at the accident scene. On the beach, the driver of the first car to have lost control crawled out of the window of his wrecked vehicle. Behind him, the engine compartment of the second car burst into flames. Inside the vehicle, two small children screamed and beat their tiny fists against the passenger windows while their unconscious parents lay slumped in their seats, oblivious to the imminent danger facing their precious family.

  Although the arrival of the emergency services had successfully diverted the attention of police away from the Suburban access to the vehicle remained impossible. Entry and exit from the parking lot was blocked by fire trucks. Merrick watched a team of firefighters deploy a water hose from their truck and run down the embankment to the burning car, dousing the flames, breaking out the windows and pulling the children to safety, then wrenched open the car doors to allow paramedics access to the trapped parents. On the driver’s side of the vehicle the children’s father was being cautiously extricated from the car and eased onto a backboard, his neck and body immobilized for safe transport up the hill to the waiting ambulance. On the passenger side of the car, a paramedic squeezed her way into the crushed compartment and pressed her fingers against the woman’s neck, checking for a pulse, then moved her stethoscope across her chest, listening for a cardiac or respiratory response, but found none. The paramedic looked up at the police officers and firemen standing beside the car and shook her head.

  Ellie stood with her hand clasped over her mouth, then broke into tears. “Those poor, poor people,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Merrick replied. “Shame.”

  Long Beach.

  Merrick walked around the corner of the shop. A footpath ran alongside the road below the view of oncoming traffic. Egan had received his instructions and would be on his way. He would meet him there. There was no time to waste.

  The police had found the contractors truck. Which meant they’d probably also found his remains at the back of the shopping center in Corona. Merrick assumed that by now all hell had broken out at Dynamic Life Sciences. DARPA was looking for him, as was probably every other police agency in the country.

  Merrick picked up his pace. He ran up the footpath to the sidewalk, rounded the bend, and crossed the road. The traffic behind him had come to a complete stop. Ahead, he heard the excited sound of children splashing in a pool.

  The Acadia Motor Inn’s neon-orange sign flashed NO VACANCY above the entrance to the main office and swayed in lazily rhythm with the gentle ocean breeze.

  Merrick pushed open the door and stepped inside. The manager glanced up from his book of crossword puzzles and put down his pen. He pointed to the outside sign.

  “Sorry, mister,” the manager said. “Like the sign says, we’re full up.”

  “You use a pen,” Merrick said. “I’m impressed!”

  Confused, the manager looked up. “Say what?”

  Merrick qualified his remark. “The crossword puzzle you’re working on. Very few people are confident enough in their puzzle-solving ability to use a pen. Most use a pencil. It’s so much easier. You make a mistake, erase it, make the correction and move on. But using a pen... that exemplifies an entirely different level of commitment. We pen-users allow no provision for error. We’re ‘all-in’, as the younger crowd calls it. You can learn a lot about an individual by the approach he or she takes to solving such minor challenges as the completion of a crossword puzzle. I too have always loved them. They are an insignificant distraction, of course, but still a test of one’s intellectual mettle nonetheless.” Merrick stepped around the counter. “I’ve always found crosswords to be incredibly stimulating and so much more enjoyable when completed with a friend. You’ve piqued my curiosity. Mind if I have a look?”

  “Uh, sure… I guess so,” the manager said, disarmed by the charm and confidence of the stranger. “This one clue does have me a little stumped.”

  Merrick laughed. “Isn’t that always the way? There always has to be one clue that’s a nuisance. But that’s just part of the fun, isn’t it?” Merrick picked up the pen from the counter. “Which one is it that’s tripping you up? I’m sure we can figure it out together.”

  “24 Across,” the manager said. The desk phone rang. He disregarded the call, drawn back into the puzzle by Merrick’s offer of assistance. “Seven letters: ‘Serve as evidence or proof.’ Been stuck on that for the last twenty minutes. You got any idea what that is?”

  “I may,” Merrick said. “Mind if I borrow your pen?”

  “Sure,” the manager said. He placed the pen onto the desk. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Frustrated that his work responsibility was getting in the way of puzzle-solving he finally said, “I better get that.”

  “Yes, of course. Go ahead,” Merrick said. He picked up the pen. “No, wait… wait. Yes, I’ve got it!” He laughed. He turned to the manager. “Isn’t it funny? Sometimes the answer is so blatantly obvious it might
as well be staring you right in the face.”

  The managers let the phone ring. He turned his attention back to the puzzle.

  “You figured it out?” he said. “What is it?”

  Merrick plunged the pen deep into the man’s neck. The manager’s eyes widened. Merrick covered his mouth as he began to gag, then lowered him to the floor beneath the reception desk.

  “Witness,” Merrick whispered into the dying man’s ear. He peered out the window and watched as the children played in the pool under the warm California sun. “W-I-T-N-E-S-S,” he spelled out. “Something I can’t afford to have.”

  The manager’s eyes fluttered. His body fell slack.

  A roll of paper towels and other housekeeping items sat on a shelf below the manager’s desk. Merrick tore off several sheets, wiped the blood off the counter, and cleaned his hands. The keys to a late model Volvo lay in a glass bowl under the desk. Merrick scooped them out of the bowl and exited the office. On the key ring was the key to the front door. He locked it behind him as he left. A sign affixed to the wall in front of the Volvo read MANAGER.

  Merrick started the dead man’s car, backed out of his parking space, put the vehicle into gear, and left the Acadia Motor Inn.

  Long Beach awaited, as did Commander Egan.

  And payback.

  CHAPTER 39

  “SO THAT’S IT?” Deputy Poole said. “We’re shut down… just like that?”

  “It’s not our game anymore, Jack,” Chief Jenkins said. “Tell the boys to box up everything they’ve processed so far and hand it over to Colonel Hallier.”

  “You mean Mr. Green Suit?”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do,” Jenkins replied. “But we’re done here. Hallier claims we’re not equipped to handle it, that it’s too dangerous for Corona P.D., and that we’re to consider it a matter of national security.”

  “Bullshit,” Poole replied. “I could say the same thing about my wife’s meatloaf.”

  “A Department of Defense team is on the way. Tell the men to provide them with whatever assistance they need when they arrive.”